


the marked boy.

by staalesque



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Not Hockey Players, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Ancient magic, Dream Sex, M/M, Mind Games, More tags to be added!, Reality Bending, destined relationship, questionable parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-11-18 05:01:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18113795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staalesque/pseuds/staalesque
Summary: He has not been told he may leave the house.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> i'm probably going to make a post explaining myself on tumblr, but this is completely separate from my other vamp!pekka and human juuse fics. the tone of this one is a fair bit darker, and i hope you trust me to make it interesting without crossing too many lines. (EDIT: the post is [here](https://matskreider.tumblr.com/post/183476070152/questions-about-the-marked-boy-questions).) 
> 
> i can't say ahead of time how long this is going to be, nor when the updates will take place, but i'm quite excited for this, and i hope you are too 💙💛

He has not been told he may leave the house.

The autumn chill holds their town in a vice grip, her yellow stained fingers marring the trees surrounding their home. Further north, the spectacle explodes into color; red as blood, brown as earth, spread across mountains and forests. Ruska lasts a short time, but a beautiful time, before winter buries home in a pale grave.

Juuse could see his breath as he stood on the edge of their property.

Neither of his parents were home when he left. It was the only way he could. The borrowed book burned a hole in his pocket, the paperback curled and jammed into his jeans, following the curve of muscle. The sun had barely set into the sky, and he’d taken his bicycle for additional speed. The library had been open when he’d arrived. He had parked his bike by the front, the chipped and rusted tubing out of place in the midst of glossy black and white. He’s had the bike all his life, though; surely it couldn’t be outdated so soon?

Juuse steps into the library. The librarian, a lone old woman, had been there for as long as Juuse could remember. He never learned her name. He was only ever allowed to see her when in the company of his parents, though that’s not entirely the truth.

He’s only allowed to leave the house when in the company of his parents.

But it’s daylight, playful and warm, and though winter will soon set in, he will be fine. He’ll spend the long dark hours curled in front of the fire, reading book after book after book, while his mother prepares dinner. His father will return at nightfall, leaves, snow, and blood clotted to the fur on his collar, and take his post by the back door. His shotgun will never leave his side, and Juuse will fall asleep to the sound of his parents softly murmuring.

The librarian stares at him as he approaches the front desk. He gives a smile, perhaps too fearful in its curl, and she tilts her head a little. “How old are you, Pekkason?”

This is not Juuse’s family name, though he supposes she is technically correct. She has always addressed him as such. The first few times, his parents had gently corrected her, insisting on her using his given name. But she had merely shaken her head, only addressing him as ‘Pekkason.’ When Juuse asked her, he could not have been but five or six, why she persisted on such a title, she had told him he was marked for a different life than the rest. He had giggled; she had not. His mother had come over then, cutting their conversation short with a curt ‘good day.’

“Eighteen, set to be nineteen at the turn of spring.” His voice deepened with age, yet remained hoarse with disuse. He pulls the book from his pocket, the yellowed pages resettling into a straighter arrangement with the pull of gravity to the flat surface of the desk.

She makes no move to take the book, and Juuse hesitates. Should he have put it into the book drop at the side of the desk? Surely this was more practical. He longed for personal company beyond that of his parents. Perhaps he was not long for this social world.

Perhaps he was not long for this world at all.

Juuse turns towards the door, intent on returning home. He’s executed his plan flawlessly; the book is returned (not that his parents knew he had the book to begin with) and he can perhaps use the last few hours of daylight to treat himself. A beer at the alehouse, or perhaps thirty minutes in their outdoor sauna. Maybe he’d walk into the forest, watching the buttery light spread across the forest floor, until all glitters like The Golden Hall. These few hours are his precious time to spend, before his mother returns from the bakery and his father from his hunting. Tonight, maybe he can even convince his father to let him outside after the sun begins to set, so he may assist in chopping wood for the winter.

There’s much he can do, but the woman speaks again. “How fares your sleep, Pekkason?”

Crosshatching shadow eclipses the warm visions in his mind. His thighs tense, but he turns on the ball of his foot, looking back at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“The _dreams,_ Pekkason. You’ve had them by now, I’m sure. Soon, you’ll be looking for him. And he, you.” She stands now, brown and white hair barely constrained in a loose braid, long enough to be tucked into her belt. It has always been long enough to be tucked into her belt.

His blood runs cold, his mother’s voice shouting in his head for him to wake up, to remember that he’s home and safe and not

‘ _lost in the darkness_ , _the lone little bear cries, yearning for a taste of home_ ’

in any danger.

He nods, without meaning to, the dreams filtering back to him. They aren’t all bad, per say, but they are always dark. He can never see what is about to happen to him. It should frighten him, lost in the dark with another presence he cannot see, hear, smell, touch. But it does not. The dreams, a harbinger of cosmic belonging, make the loneliness fade. He’s had them for two years now, it will be three in the spring. He never used to have dreams, but the darkness was clearly distinguishing itself as dream. It felt alive. At first, he was alone in the darkness. But when the presence came, and Juuse thought himself to be _with_ another being -- not his parents, but another, outside being -- he came to look forward to them. The only one that had truly scared him had been the dream on the eve of his eighteenth birthday. He’d seen pale hands, seemingly disembodied in the darkness, yet not. Trembling, they’d brushed against his cheek, beneath his left eye. The touch stung and soothed, a sharp heated pain cooled with an icy balm.

He’d immediately awoken, pressing the pad of his index finger to the mark -- not quite a freckle, not quite a mole -- and found his skin damp with tears. The next night, there were no such hands, even as he pleaded into the darkness for them to return, if only so he wouldn’t be so alone.

When the dreams returned, he was not alone. He was touched more, in ways he had only read about. His mother had looked away in shame when he arrived downstairs, disheveled and confused. His father hadn’t spoken to him for hours afterwards. He only stared out the frost lined window panes, shotgun at the ready, ignoring his damp and trembling son. Juuse slept longer, or perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps he had arisen in a new place, made to feel love and comfort beyond that which parents can give. On these nights, he awoke to his mother shaking him, tearfully begging him to return from a place he cannot name.

Juuse feels hot shame sink its claws deep into his shoulders. The boy shrugs, as if to rid himself of the sensation. The librarian does not seem to notice this.

“I’ve got to return home,” he says instead. It occurs to him that, for the amount of bikes tethered outside, he can hear noone within the library. Even the children’s section seems empty, out of a naive hope to preserve the innocence in the buckets of slim hardcovers.

She says nothing, and he once again turns to face the door. She doesn’t stop him. The door clicks closed with a finality, questions curling on the tip of his tongue. His bike is right where he left it, slanted to the side in the early afternoon sun.

As he mounts the bike and kicks off down the main pathway, back towards home, the light around him dims. Darkening clouds gather, dulling the soft yellow light to grey. The world softens and weather moves quickly, so his legs must move quicker. The woman’s reminder of his dreams dyes every shadow darker, more sinister, more warped and twisted, though they are nothing more than reflections of the tree branches on the ground. While the darkness of the dreams is safe, warm, and contained, there are other things that live in the shadows here.

Wind whips through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes and cutting right through his threadbare shirt. Thin fingers hold tight to the handlebars as he shifts his weight, riding the bike through the downhill curvature of the road, the spine of the town peppered with deer and corvid kind. Orange leaves blow past in his wake, the bike tires flattening the leaves with every push. He’s biking to escape something, though what it is, he cannot say.

And if he cannot say it, who is to say it is dangerous?

He squeezes the back break on the bike, putting his leg down and letting the sole of his shoe kick up dirt and leaves behind him. It is the middle of the day, despite the clouds. When he looks up, they’re still dark, swollen with rain. Yet Juuse deserves to have a few more hours out of the house. His pale skin looks dead in the afternoon light, and he waits a few moments. He looks out into the trees lining the road, clear blue eyes wide. Surely whatever beast is out there would shy from eye contact. It’s what the rivermen must do in the jungles of India, to keep the tigers at bay. There’s nothing worse than a tiger in these forests.

There cannot be.

Faced with his own indecision, Juuse bites his lower lip, standing up on his tiptoes while surveying the road. Ahead of him, the road continues, bending back up a hill and continuing on toward home. If he squints, he thinks he can convince himself to see the pale yellow paint on the siding of their house, warming the skyline. The thin, pale brown lines of fencing across his family’s property dip between the yellow and orange leaves. Wind caresses the leaves, moving the trees standing on his property en masse, a large yellow calming void.

Picturesque, but confining.

He holds his hand up to the sky, trying to see how much more daylight he has. Home is within sight, and suddenly, that’s too much. He doesn’t want to squander his free time, limited as it may be. Yet he doesn’t wish to return to town. Ostracised and hiding behind his mother’s skirts his entire life did not endear him to other children growing up. He imagines they might be in school right now.

Determined, he gets off his bike, leaning it against a tree. It’s close to the side of the road, but far enough back from possible traffic that he feels confident it won’t be ruined. The forest stretches before him, a vibrant yellow room. Alive and inviting, unlike home, unlike the pale washed wood of his attic room. He can see his father’s furrowed brows, now, sternly reprimanding him for disobeying his warnings.

He is eighteen years old. He can handle a walk in the woods.

Nothing special happens when he enters the treeline. He feels like a fool, turning back to check as often as he does, watching the figure of his bike getting smaller and smaller the further he goes. Burbling creeks move in the distance, until all at once he’s nearly stepping into one. If he follows the creek, he can simply retrace his steps back to this juncture. He kicks a cross into the ground, dragging his heel into the dirt in an off center ‘t’ shape. It might be a little naive of he, to assume nothing will disturb this marker. He promises himself to be quick.

The world, however, does not agree.

The creek leads him to a clearing, smelling of sweet grass and floral scents. A warm spot of green in the midst of a yellowed copse, and he curls himself in the middle of the space. Abruptly, he spreads out, like a firework, his arms stretched overhead, fingers stretching back towards the road. The sun shines down on his face, dappled with dark rain clouds, but the only scent of water in the area is from the creek. He’s alone, blessedly alone, but he wishes he could have someone

‘ _pale hands, strong from work centuries ago, tilling and sowing and shaping the land until_ ’

to share it with.

Juuse tucks his arms beneath his head, closing his eyes. When the first drops of rain hit, he decides, he’ll move on. Until then, he intends to enjoy being free. The blessing lasts for a decent amount of time, but the starving dog of guilt nips at him, pulling his attention free from a blessed serenity.

His parents do love him. They’ve told him such. They say that what they do is to protect him, from things he is not ready for and from things he is not meant to see. They live far from the cities, in the countryside, but not as far north as they could inhabit. Not as far up as where the fairytales all seem to take place; in a realm of ice castles and blood red apples and gilded dragons. He thought it peculiar that he couldn’t go to school with the other children, but his home education had done enough. He was literate, far more than the standard for boys his age, and his maths were okay. But it seemed almost as if his parents were only going through the motions of raising him. They knew they had to keep him alive, but it seemed that arrangement only went to a certain end.

Juuse had seen a similar look on farmer’s faces when the spring calves, piglets, chicks come and they know how much meat they can get from either mother or child. There will be tender love until the day that contract is fulfilled. If his parents were preparing him for slaughter, though, why would his father bother to arm himself all night? Why would his mother insist on still taking him into town (though at fifteen he thought himself far too old to still hold her hand in public)? Why would they warn him first against leaving their fenced in property, then about leaving the house, then about leaving his room? Why would they put so much energy into not getting attached that their lack of attachment became their attachment?

An insect lands on Juuse’s nose, causing him to snort, waving it away. When Juuse opens his eyes, he finds nothing but darkness.

Outside, he remains, yet the cold chill of night has already begun to set in. His father has returned from his hunt by now, surely; his mother, too, long since returned from the bakery. If nothing befalls him in the night forest, something will when he returns home. He stands, brushing grass and mud off of him, barely visible in the obscured light of the moon. He’s alone, terrifyingly alone.

The creek is difficult to find, but he manages, almost slipping into it once again. He catches himself, dirt under his fingernails with the effort, but manages to stay on the bank. The moon is a pale spectre through the clouds, and Juuse can’t be sure of when exactly he fell asleep. He doesn’t know which horizon is West and which is East, and the clouds obscure the stars too much to rely on them for guidance. He picks a direction, wishing he could remember if he had walked up river or down river from his marked cross in the dirt. The cool water moves near silently beside him, and he prays that he’s picking the right direction.

It soon becomes clear he has not.

The creek dries up, or disappears back into its source, but after what must be an hour of wandering Juuse can’t even find the creek bed anymore. He cannot see tracks, he cannot see his own muddied palm before his face, and he certainly can’t see a way out of this for him. Panic wells in his throat, hot and prickling, and tears begin to well in his eyes.

Perhaps his parents didn’t let him out of their sight because he was a fool.

He finally stops walking in circles, gingerly setting a hand on the rough bark of a tree. It looks black and gnarled in the moderate amount of light the moon provides.

There’s an increase of wind.

It’s raining somewhere else, now.

Juuse cannot be sure how he knows these things, but he closes his eyes and prays, prays for someone to listen, to guide him back where he belongs. When he opens his eyes, he startles, nearly falling over.

There’s a man standing but a few paces away from him. He has his hands in his pockets with his head bowed, and the full moon seems to favor him, for he is illuminated in an amount of light Juuse hadn’t seen in hours. The yellows of the forest are dyed silver now, suspended in gemstones and diamonds. But the man seems familiar. An old acquaintance, changed by time and space, brought back to this moment to offer his help. Surely, that must be his purpose here.

The man looks up, and Juuse is struck by just how _beautiful_ he is. He is aware that he’s holding onto the tree like he held his mothers skirts as a child, hiding from the world behind an silver birch shield.

“Hello,” Juuse says softly. His voice is stronger now than it was from the library, but that means next to nothing.

The man stares at him, lips slightly parted. His eyes are a soft blue, not deep like the night sky but not as pale as the blankets on Juuse’s bed. Oh, how he wishes for his bed, cold and alone in the dark. But he’s not alone.

He has a stranger.

“Hello,” the man answers. His voice is deep, a _mans_ voice, different from his fathers and those in the town. “Are you alright?”

The care expressed by the other man takes Juuse by surprise. He isn’t used to experiencing attention from others. The town shuns him, a side effect of his parents’ strict rules, he is sure. They love him, yes, but a thrill burns low in his stomach, a warm shiver -- if such a thing were to be possible -- at the thought of warranting another’s attentions. He has only read about these encounters, these thoughts. Eighteen years of life and his greatest life achievements were lived vicariously, through yellowed pages, second hand and cold.

“I…” He is not alright. He is lost, and confused. A part of him wants to hide his vulnerability. A larger part wants to express it. He doesn’t know which to listen to.

“I’m sorry, for startling you. I’m Pekka.”

_Pekkason._

“That’s my father’s name.”

Pekka nods, as if this is information he already knew. He takes a step closer, but his hands remain in his pockets. “A trustworthy man, then.”

He gives Juuse a smile, close lipped. No longer shrouded in shadow, and closer, Pekka is now close enough that Juuse can begin to see more details. His clothes are finely made, classes above the clothes hanging off Juuse’s thin frame. No mud is on his shoes, nor any leaves or evidence that he could have walked to where they stand.

Perhaps he did not slide into a creek bed, Juuse thinks to himself. He blushes at his own temper, and Pekka’s breath catches, though Juuse doubts the two could be connected. A gust of wind ruffles their hair before the forest falls silent. Not even the faintest of footsteps, nor any night birdsong, has interrupted their encounter. Abruptly, Juuse’s manners lurch to the front of his mind, and he clears his throat.

“I was trying to return home,” he explains, perhaps finally answering Pekka’s original question. “Could you help me? I’m lost.”

Pekka tenses, shifting his weight. Juuse recalls the stray cats that lounge along the edges of their property, how they’re filled with the thrill of anticipation before they sink their teeth into an unsuspecting fieldmouse. He has no doubts he is the fieldmouse here, but Pekka remains standing where he is.

“Of course.” One simple word, yet excitement curls feral round each letter and breath. Juuse smiles and steps out from the edge of the tree.

“Thank you, I’m afraid I cannot remember where I was before all of this.” A compulsion to tell this kind faced, eager man overrides his precaution, and he gives in. “Well, I can, but I can’t recall where it was. Oh, it was so beautiful! A lovely meadow, with flowers of all colors, even this deep in the wood. There was a creek that ran through it, which I thought I had followed out, but it appears I had followed it only deeper.” He turns to gesture, taking a few steps towards where he believes the creek had dried up. “I’ve only read about places like that, I’ve never seen one. My parents…”

He trails off, remembering his mother’s face. She must be wrecked, in a face gently touched by age yet how cruel would he be to have contributed to those markers of stress. Broken hearted, calling for him. He needs to return home.

A hand settles on his shoulder

‘ _stinging, soothing, arousing, calming touch_ ’

and he freezes. In the watery moonlight, he can see his breath, little silvered clouds in the forest. Even the wind cannot motivate the trees to sway, for Juuse to move, to go, to try to escape. He cannot outrun the moon, he cannot outrun this man. He has been caught.

Or has he been found?

“These woods are dangerous, little one. I’d rather not wander around further in the dark.” Juuse turns, looking up at Pekka. He is tall, taller than Juuse, and the hand on his shoulder moves up to his cheek. The pad of his thumb brushes over Juuse’s mark, a place neither of his parents would touch. Like his dream, ice and fire cascades across his face. But here, the sensory storm is calmed by proximity, as he leans in close. Juuse does not know what he should do. The contact makes him feel warmer, safer, and he -- bold, too bold, or not bold enough -- rests his forehead on Pekka’s chest. He feels Pekka’s breath as he inhales, trembles, the feral excitement snapping at the bit to be released. “I live nearby.”

In daylight, Juuse supposes, he can leave Pekka’s home and return to his own. He could return to the wooden prison he has lived in for eighteen years. Or he could listen to the cosmic rebalancing, the tugging of his soul, the part that encourages him to bow and lean into Pekka’s body. He’s not as thin as he appears, warm muscle so different from Juuse’s own body. He knows well enough not to make deals that have not been enunciated, clarified, drawn out before blood is drawn.

“How could I repay your kindness?” he asks softly.

“I have not offered a kindness,” Pekka responds, his lips brushing Juuse’s hair with every word. He pulls back, taking a step away, and the temporary heat goes with him. Juuse traces his own cheekbone, his face hairless, not quite a mans but devoid of baby softness, a trait he got from his father.

_Pekkason._

“May I return home with you?” Juuse asks. The moon grows brighter, revealing Pekka in an almost daylight quality. He wears dark clothing, layered, supported, and far better protected than Juuse. He wants to crawl back within his grasp. Yet even as he utters these words, he feels a sudden sliding sideways, his vision darkening as the moon shifts above. Why must excitement and nausea combine in such an enticing, similar fashion? Why does his body cry out in both consensus and discord, feeling unnaturally wrong and right at the same time? He bites his lower lip, sealing his whimper of confusion from the rest of the world.

Pekka waits with bated breath. For what, Juuse does not know.

A hidden signal, and then he steps forward.

Hopeful.

He extends a hand, and Juuse clutches it, wanting Pekka to take him anywhere but here, anywhere but this frozen forest. He’s colder now, weak in the darkening night. Pekka brings him closer, chuckling softly. The laughter makes Juuse look up, a foolish decision once he sees the glint of fangs, shining in the night. His throat feels as if it is closing, and he somehow feels as if he’s being abandoned once again. He’s being taken yet he’s being forgotten at once.

“Please?” he asks, urgency leaking through his tone. If Pekka were to leave him in this wood, he doesn’t know what else would appear. They would not be as kind, or as enticing; they might not leave him alive.

“Shh.” Pekka strokes the side of his face again, and Juuse trembles, leaning into the touch. “I would take good care of you.” He seems to be speaking to himself.

Juuse wants to speak, but he abruptly feels like he shouldn’t open his mouth. His words will only muddy whatever is transpiring, between the three of them.  He waits, watches as Pekka seems to lose himself, beautiful eyes focused intently on his skin. A deep and dark thrill curls around his heart, beating leporidic rhythms against his ribs. Pliant and cold, he waits, watching, feeling the pressure of the moon behind him. He has never felt more alive.

“I would,” he repeats. He believes himself, and Juuse is inclined to believe him as well. He nods, still stricken mute, and Pekka makes a noise that no human should be able to. It makes Juuse want to bare his throat. “And I’ve waited long enough.”

The moon seems to grow brighter, and when Juuse spares a glance to the sky, he sees no clouds. The stars shine and shimmer down at him, and he realizes he recognizes none of them. He wouldn’t have been able to find his way home even if the sky hadn’t concealed itself. Looking back ahead to him, he sees Pekka also looking up at the moon. He hasn’t yet released Juuse’s hand.

Juuse squeezes, more of a bare twitch of his fingers, attempting to get Pekka’s attention.

“Yes,” Pekka murmurs, looking back down at Juuse. The friendliness is back in his eyes, a pale cornflower blue in the silver light. “I have waited long enough. And you have too, little one.”

_Soon, you’ll be looking for him. And he, you._

“You are from my dreams,” Juuse whispers.

‘Aye.’ Pekka mouths the word, inclines his head once, a nod turned bow.

“My name is Juuse.” He doesn’t know why he offers this information, but it feels paramount.

“ _Juuse_.” Pekka replies thoughtfully.

His name sounds right in that voice, correct in that tone that aligns with what he wants. He yearns to hear it again. Pekka’s other hand comes up, settles on his shoulder. Juuse feels his thumb trace over his collarbone, dipping beneath the olive green shirt. He watches as Pekka’s brows furrow, bruising the blue deeper.

“I will take care of you,” he murmurs. “I promise.”

Juuse nods, biting his lower lip. “I believe you.” He has nowhere else to run. He has nowhere he can go, but he wants to return to home, sit by the fire, and be safe. He wants to be safe.

“Please take me home.”

Juuse’s plaintive tone makes Pekka look down. The etches of concern across Pekka’s face catches him off guard, further tipping his landscape sideways. The leafy ground is both beneath his feet but brushing his shoulder. He’s alone, he will be left alone if Pekka will not let him go with him, he has to return, he cannot be in solitude.

“Home,” Pekka intones, nodding. “Forgive me; I’ve been waiting for you for a long time. How exciting to finally be with you.”

Pekka takes a step back, and Juuse is pulled along with him. He takes another step, disoriented, feeling as if he’s slumping sideways, his head heavy. He feels as if he is floating, the tree branches blurring above him.

( _His mother knits scarves and socks, supplementing their warmth when the winter snow sets in. These aren’t be sold in the market, though their skillful assemblage poses no excuse as to why. He asks her, fingers sticky with blueberry syrup on their wooden table, dyeing the pale wood purple._

_‘Mama, why can’t we leave the house?’_

_‘It’s dangerous, Juuse. Bears live in these woods.’_

_Juuse knows this, anyone can see this in the carvings in the trees, the smattered berries, the garbage strewn about and the entrails of hunters foolish enough to forget their way home. His father never forgets. He’s attached yellow and blue checkered cloth to branches, nailed them deep into the trees until they’re sticky with sap. Even if a creature tears them free, something will remain._

_‘Mama, Papa leaves the house often.’_

_Her hands still on the needles, whalebone bleached creme. ‘Papa is protecting us.’_

_‘From what?’ Childhood innocence pulls the question from him, launching a stone into the suddenly still pond._

_His mother looks up at him, her eyes narrowed. She never answers the question. Her anger is directly at him. He knows this. Her soft words and touches do little to assuage the guilt he feels, even as she stares at him. Not quite at his eye, but a bit below; off center, off kilter, to the mark that means he is different._

_He licks his palm, the blueberry syrup now cold. It isn’t satisfying._ )

The black wood weaves together above him, a thatched roof assembled from nature. High above, the moon watches, tracking their movements through the shattered wood. Pekka is above him, lips slightly parted and teeth partially visible. The bones gleam in the night, enthusiastic, pleased for

‘ _slick tongues and growls, pulling him deeper, sheets and shirt rucked up in a way he cannot comprehend’_

something.

I am something, he supposes.

“No,” Pekka answers. “You are _mine._ ”

The hot and spiny panic from earlier suddenly uncurls from where it has gone, splaying wide in Juuse’s throat and closing it. Pekka shushes him, brushing the back of his hand along Juuse’s throat, delicately tracing the column of his throat. It soothes the panic, a balm from outside.

Juuse lets himself believe there is nothing nefarious about the man wearing shadows and the moon in his teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos + comments give me life 💛


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello lovelies; tw for vague, super duper brief fire-related injuries that are completely healed (they happened years ago, it's in a flashback)

Juuse’s memory resembles cheesecloth: enough to catch the specific, the unique, but malleable enough that the general context of life passes by, unimpeded. 

His parents blamed the books he has read. Tales of impossible feats twisted his expectation of reality. They couldn’t have known how Juuse bonded with the women locked away in their towers of stone, imprisoned with thorns and curses. They couldn’t have seen the way Juuse peered out the small circular window above his bed, pretended to wait for some change to his life. He did not think himself a woman. He knew himself to be a man, but Juuse supposed he fit more with women than with men. He had limited experience with the world; he held no property or skills of his own, save for reading and a few select recipes; he was forbidden from leaving his home. Not a stone tower, not an ice castle, not a frosted sierra, but a wooden, hollow, home. 

With his days so constrained, it is no wonder he cannot recall the maintenance of his family home. Every day was the same. His routine wore depressions in the floor, from his bedroom, down the ladder, through the hall and into the den. Lighter trails curved throughout the kitchen, growing fainter as he grew older and he became too enraptured with his books to be a nuisance in preparation for supper. Why should his mind hold onto such mundanities when he could instead recall magical realities of elsewhere? 

The lines between dreams — before he was in the warm darkness, before he was old enough to comprehend another presence, before the gentle fingers running down his cheek and neck — blurred pleasantly with reality. He lived in the afterglow of escape, with golden sunlight and crisp apples and wolves with honeyed eyes. His parents frowned when he retained the dreamlike quality. Fearful of disappointing them, he sequestered himself. 

That was before they had done it for him.

Over time, as he read more books, more elements joined him within his dreams. He saw himself barefoot on a coast, grain-like dirt clinging to his calves, the sun dyeing and warming his skin. He traced his fingers over carved and detailed stone, overgrown with moss, a hot dampness to it that home couldn’t quite create. He felt magic across his body, he saw in new colors, he tasted the other side of life. 

Juuse had no friends to which he could relay these experiences. The only friends he did have had already lived through these; it had been _them_ who had shared with him. Once, he had persuaded his mother to let him have a book of his own. One he could write in, in which he could control the story. He could not have been but fourteen at the time. His imagination drove his hands to craft the impossible. He could have shaped worlds in this notebook, written extensions on well loved stories, filling in the darkened missing chapters from his friends lives. But that is not what occurred. He tried, of course, to come up with his own story. He still remembers it — specific, unique, memorable as it was. Because it was about him. 

It was about the thoughts that curved, wild and feral, fae-like through his mind. An apparition and then gone, as if he weren’t quite able to comprehend what was going on. He lived for those little insights, those soothing images to take him to another place. 

So he wrote them down.

He wrote about a fireplace taller than he, filled with roaring yellow flame that obeyed his every wish. He detailed the multi-course meals available to he and only he, for he was king of this castle. The stone ribcages in the high arching ceilings agreed as such. He had no servants nor no guards in this world. He could roam as he pleased and no one could stop him.

Yet. 

He was not alone.

A presence was with him, following him through this home. It was not violent, but it was ever present. Hovering, close by, should he need aid. It comforted him as he wrote, seasons passing as he filled more of the pages. Finally, he had finished the first book, and asked his mother for a second. It had been simply a matter of time before she asked him what had taken hold of his mind so vividly. She seemed resigned, and near fearful. This was the first time Juuse questioned if he should tell her about the thoughts curled between his ears. 

He allowed her to read a page. A single page, the beginning of the fifth chapter. After that, there had been no more.

( _Juuse stands in front of his mother, his hands clasped in front of him. He is fifteen now, the changes of manhood already sinking into his body. He is still smaller than she. She holds the book in her hand. He watches fine brows furrow, her eyes widening with an emotion Juuse cannot name, for it is far faster than he can recognize. She pauses but a moment, before turning back to the page prior to her current one, and begins to read._

_“Across from me, a mirror. I stand, though my reflection does not match. Rather, it does, but it does not. It flickers, like a candle flame; only my clothes remain intact within this inverse image. Another set of clothes appears behind me. I feel a hand on my shoulder, see the indentation on the shoulder of my mirrored self, though no such hand appears. I know without turning to look that it is he._

_The proper owner of this castle, and the wondrous host to which I owe all my pleasures and securities. I still know not his name. He is gentle, and kind; warm and quiet, though I always know when he is around. He makes himself known, in minor adjustments to curtains and stoking the fire._

_It is always warm when he is around._

_I reach up, watching my empty sleeve in the mirror — my hand only occasionally sees fit to join the shimmering image with the rest of my flickering visage — before settling my hand overtop his. He is cool, to the touch. There is a gasp, though I know not which of us has made such a sound. Like the moment between songbird melodies, when an infinite number of possibilities and responses exist — a pregnant pause, moldable to any future, like hot wax sliding down the length of a candle, or a basket of wool before it is combed and prepared — the silence stretches between us._

_I am not worried. I never am when he is around._

_I only wish I could know his name._

_Sometimes — as he does now, bringing his other hand up to cup the side of my face, what I assume to be his thumb brushing over my mark — he touches me. This marks the first time I have responded in kind. My heart struggles, a buck in a trap, frantic and heaving at this new environment. I am trapped here, though at times, it does not seem so._

_In fact, I do believe I am freed.”_

_His mother looks up at him, betrayal bright in her blue eyes. “Juuse.”_

_Juuse blinks. He does not often recall what he writes when he is writing it. It is a flow of consciousness, an outpouring of things he normally is not allowed to say. But this is the exchange. His mother to read a page for him to gain another journal. This is the bargain._

_“Yes, Mama?”_

_Tears spring to her eyes, and she closes the book with a snap. It’s a fine book, a leather cover made at the tanner in town, with the pages procured with no small amount of favors on his mother’s behalf. Juuse fears for it._

_She holds the book up, accusation clear. “What is this about?”_

_He hesitates, perhaps a moment too long. Anger clouds her visage._

_She squeezes his journal tight, before turning and throwing it towards the ever-burning fireplace._

_Juuse is moving before he fully realizes what it is he is doing. He can feel a pressure at the back of his shirt, but he falls to his knees, pawing at the hot ashes and coals. The smell of burning fills the air._

_He cannot feel his hands._

_He does not manage to rescue the book._

_The next few months he cannot write anything. He leans against the circular window in his room, mouthing the words to the chapters he had poured over for a year._ )

He remembers this vividly, the anguish caught in the skeins of his memory. Juuse had clutched onto them tightly with burned hands. They were all he had. Eventually, his hands healed

‘ _perhaps too well, murmured the doctors, marveling at his new pink skin_ ’ 

and with their healing came his return to the written word. He read and read and read, occasionally marking certain passages to return to later, in the seclusion of dark. Once again, he was the heroine in these stories. He was the treasure to be rescued, rather than the man doing the rescuing. 

That was okay, was it not? 

Three years passed. The daydreams faded, and in their place, the dreams began.

Warmth.

Darkness.

A safety, a comfort unlike that of home. 

Then, he turned eighteen. At first, the hands frightened him. He had never been touched in such a gentle, unfamiliar way. He did not know what to make of the sensation, so he shied away from it. But he missed it, and before long, he longed for it. 

He still did not know what to do with these touches. 

He did not know what to do when he awoke to damp and stained trousers, his blankets soiled around him. Shamefaced, he would bring them to the other piles of dirtied clothes, hoping his mother would not ask questions. He had not wet himself since he was a child, and as he stuttered through this explanation, his mother shushed him. She seemed to know something he did not. 

She did not care to explain. 

At least she would look at him; his father would pretend as if he was not speaking. Juuse didn’t know what his father’s boyhood had been like, but he had assumed some amount of masculinity would be shared between father and son. He had his eyes; his jaw; his rough patches of facial hair. Surely they could share something as simple as this? A reflection of change, of becoming a man in his own right? 

But there were no conversations. 

Worse yet were the times he was woken up by his mother shaking his shoulders, his moan catching in his throat. He didn’t know what to do about the hardness between his legs, the ache it caused. His parents were of no help, but he didn’t know what he could do about it other than return to sleep. The warm darkness, where the gentle hands of a stranger would touch him in new and pleasant ways, ways he wanted and craved though didn’t dare emulate on himself. What would his parents think? What would _anyone_ think? 

So he muffled his disappointment and promised he would come downstairs soon, and tried desperately to claw his way back to sleep. Rarely was he successful; rarer still would the hands still be there. Occasionally, when they waited for him, they’d return to where they had been before, finishing the job. It was like a burst of pleasure, as if he was briefly somewhere, anywhere 

_‘ anywhen_ ’

else. 

Now, those hands are splayed across his back, carrying him forward to an unknown destination. He is supported solely by their strong hold. He does not know where they are, nor where they could be going or for how long they have been traveling. Only that it remains dark above him, or perhaps that is the blackened branches racing overhead.

Eventually, the soft touch of wind along his cheek ceases, and Juuse realizes they have come to a stop. Pekka’s hands are still on his body, though they rest — proper, gentlemanly — just above his right hip and on his left shoulder. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, coarse navy blue darkness temporarily blinding him. Pekka’s body is nowhere that he can feel, and for a terrifying moment, Juuse wonders if this is only a dream. If he floundered away the rare dry sunshine like his parents often told him to; if he never went to the library and only dreamed of this encounter. He leans back into the hands, mutely begging to whatever will listen that these hands will stay. Tipping all of his dead weight back, his heart lurches against his ribcage as his shoulder blades brush a well dressed chest. He reaches up and back with a clumsy hand, his knuckles catching on a strong, hairless jaw, though the lack of hair does not indicate youthfulness. Juuse’s breath catches, and he yearns to turn around, himself Orpheus and Pekka Eurydice in this moment and this moment alone. 

“Easy, little one.” A hand leaves Juuse’s hip, instead reaching up to encircle his wrist. His hands are familiar, and his touch calms the racing revolt in his chest. Fear does not touch him now, but he hasn’t yet forgotten her. 

Pekka’s fingers settle over his pulse point. 

Juuse feels the way his breath hitches. 

“I apologize for this beginning,” he continues, voice confident in the darkness. “It may take a while for you to adjust. Darkness was a necessity, but now that you’re here…” He trails off, before letting go of Juuse and stepping away. 

Fear still does not touch him. He has been here before, in this space, in his dreams. The chill of the nighttime forest doesn’t reach him here. His dreams were never _hot_ persay; rather comfortable instead. An autumn night curved in the midst of his favorite blankets. A perfect temperature. 

Why he whimpers when Pekka steps away, then, has nothing to do with discomfort or fear. Or perhaps it does. 

There’s a sudden brightness, and Juuse winces, bringing his arms up to cover his eyes. A short laugh comes from his left side, before Pekka settles his hands back on Juuse’s body. “Surely you’ve seen fire before, little one.” 

Of course I have, Juuse thinks. He does not say this, instead lowering his arms and allowing himself time to adjust. The brightness was indeed fire, in a 

‘ _fireplace taller than he, filled with roaring yellow flame_ ’

domesticated state. He does not stare into the flame, but rather looks at what it touches. A stone floor, leading up to his own muddied shoes where he stands in the faded reaches of light. There are no cooking utensils in this fire, though it rivals the one in the bakery where his mother worked from time to time. In the corner to Juuse’s right stands a large, dark shape. It’s boxy, like a bookshelf, but Juuse cannot see the details in the relative darkness. The other corner houses a lower, squatter shape whose curl Juuse recognizes as the back of his favorite reading chair. It was made for his father, who was never much for reading, so Juuse had taken it for his own. This cannot be the same chair, but the pang of memory hits him hard. Juuse turns, the fire at his back — curious that it does not warm him nor cool him, but rather exists in null, only seeking to offer light — to look up at Pekka. 

He is no longer cloaked in shadow, the firelight giving him moderate color. His hair is lighter than Juuse’s, and nowhere near as long. His pale cornflower blue eyes seem almost a flat white in the yellowed hue of the room, save for the black pupils interrupting the expanse of whiteness. Sometime, when he had sunk back into the darkness, he must have taken off his coat. The vest remains, and so does the white collared shirt in a fashion Juuse has not seen before, but has envisioned many times. Not in his dreams — only dark, blessed darkness — but in his novels. In the stories he read, to soothe his aching soul, this is how he imagined the princes. After fighting the dragon, or breaking the witch’s curse, or solving the stars riddle — as they reached out a hand to the beautiful woman and brought her out of her prison — they were dressed in proper, near _royal_ attire. Juuse had limited scale for wealth, being so far out in the country as they were, but he understood it enough. 

Pekka did not dress as a working man.

His hands felt like he was one. 

Belated, Juuse nods in response to Pekka’s answer. “Yes, I have. Forgive me; it has been a while since the light.” 

Pekka adjusts his stance a little, fingers fluttering gently along Juuse’s throat. He brushes a pulse point, Juuse’s blood flowing hot and heavy beneath soft creamy skin, and inhales sharply at the feeling. He swallows, too late to keep the noise from entering the real world. 

Or is that not what this is?

“Of course,” he murmurs to himself, speaking almost as he had before in the forests’s clearing. “Little one, I must ask your forgiveness again. I did not anticipate your arrival so soon.” 

Here, Juuse realizes, fear grips him with cold and damp fingers, clinging to him. Why would Pekka have expected his arrival? How many others had potentially met their end in this warm darkness? As the fear wells up, another, deeper voice calms it, before he is caught between the two. The animalistic bucking spirit that seeks to be free — from _any_ restraint, be it formed as his parents or not — met and cooled by the delicate touch Pekka grants him. 

This could be good. 

“Where have we gone?” Juuse asks, his voice trembling only the slightest bit in the darkness. 

Pekka’s brows furrow. “Home,” he responds, though his voice lilts up to create the aura of a question. 

“Yes, but where?” Juuse implores, reaching up and settling a hand on Pekka’s vest. The fabric is soft beneath his fingertips, with patches of roughness. After a second, Juuse recognizes that this is a pattern, embossed in circular patterns, radiating out like dark moonlight. The moon is nowhere to be found, now. 

Pekka stares at him. He seems to lose himself again. Juuse’s fingers twitch, an aborted attempt at securing himself. “Pekka?” he whispers, nails catching on the edge of the vest. 

He looks down at Juuse, eyes

‘ _sunken like ships in the night beneath a wine dark swirling sea, red blood and foam_ ’ 

darker than Juuse has seen them thus far. 

“Say that again,” he murmurs. 

Juuse’s not sure if he should. 

“…Pekka?” 

A hand comes up to cradle the side of Juuse’s face, Pekka’s thumb tracing over the mark on his cheek. His curse. “You have no idea…” Pekka trails off, leaning forward. Juuse doesn’t know what he is looking for, but he finds himself rising to his tip toes to meet him halfway. They are close now, closer than before. Anticipation presses Juuse forward, clumsy and enthusiastic, trying to find a bolt of confidence to secure his endeavor. He does not know what he reaches for. 

This hesitation freezes the moment between them. Out of the corner of his eye, Juuse swears the fire — previously a brilliant yellow, cautious yet happy — had dipped to one of the darkest reds he had ever seen. 

Living blood, dancing and writhing in the same step. 

“…Excuse me a moment,” Pekka whispers. His breath brushes against Juuse’s lips, teeth not visible from where he currently stands. He smells

‘ _an upset grave under moonlight_ ’

as overturned earth and darkness.

“Wait!” The vision fades, and Pekka is gone. 

But he’s not at home. 

He turns around and finds the room the same as it had been when Pekka had first brought him in. The fireplace, still lit and tall, though now a dimmer orange and not such a brilliant yellow. To his right, the tall bookshelf-esque structure; to his left, the reading chair. He takes a step; nothing changes. The room does not distort itself as it so often did in his dreams, moving and changing to keep him in place. He crosses the room hesitantly, before turning and following the same line back. Back and forth, across the light and shadow of the fireplace, from bookshelf to chair and back again. The light keeps him blind, his eyes unable to fully adjust, so he turns his back to the fireplace and stares into the darkness. Eventually, he sees what he had been missing all this time. 

An extravagant bed — four posters, elevated off the floor, covered with blankets of impossible shades and dyes — lounges before him. There are two side tables, standing at attention. There are no pictures, no lamps, no candles on them. Not even wax stains, Juuse finds as he steps closer. There is no sign that anyone else had ever entered this room. Curiously there is no dust. 

This does little to assuage his growing uncertainty. 

Without Pekka here, the reality of his situation begins to sink in deeper. He likely will never see his family again. The thought fills him with terror, but it is carbonated, hollow. It does not last when he thinks that perhaps this is what they were preparing for in all those years. He was told never to leave the house alone — he did, for the first time, and he was taken. Hot tears of shame blur his vision, darkness filling the room. Perhaps this is a dream? Perhaps he will be taken out of it soon? 

He sits on the bed, startles and marvels at how soft it is. He couldn’t have conceived such a softness, save for perhaps newly hatched fowl. He feels guilty at perhaps ruining such a softness with his own dirtied form. Juuse stands again, taking off his pants and setting them — neatly folded, despite their stains and frayed hems — on one of the bedside tables. Though it is an autumn night, and he is standing in just a shirt and underwear, he still feels comfortably warm. Nervously, he picks at the dirt under his fingernails, trying to get out as much as possible. 

( if his fingernails retain earth beneath them surely his earlier fall happened _today_ in which case how long has it been since he had stepped into liquid sun? )

He has done all he can do. There isn’t much for him to fuss over, and if he has been given the chance to rest, he should take it. Maybe if he lays down and pretends to sleep, he will awaken back in his own bed, with his parents downstairs. His face twitches into a dissatisfied expression, but he quickly smooths it over. What is it about this darkened home that makes him want to stay rather than return to the wooden womb that raised him? Why would he rather be here in the company of a virtual stranger —

**_NO._ **

Juuse squeaks in response to the loud, intrusive, all encompassing thought. Something deep within him revolts at the idea of assigning Pekka the position of “stranger.” Pekka has always been present, even if he did not make himself known. From the dreams and the foggy childhood memories of being pulled back from the tree line, Juuse remembers. Pekka has always been there. 

Or maybe he hasn’t. 

Maybe Juuse only wanted him to be there. 

A figment, someone to embody an escape, a way to leave the monotony of his daily life, to turn the page and let the princess be rescued from her parents. 

He doesn’t know. 

“…Hello?” he calls, his voice sounding too loud to his ears. The fire is the only thing moving, and this time Juuse watches as it deepens to an impossibly dark blue before lightening to pale yellow. There are no other responses. 

“Hello?” he asks again, desperate this time. Pekka promised that he would take good care of him, but who was he to offer such a thing? Who was Juuse to accept? He waits, almost hesitant to see if the deep wildness will speak to him again. But there is nothing. 

He is alone. 

Again. 

He gets into the bed, finding more of the same softness. It is too big for one person. Juuse doesn’t think he has a choice. He closes his eyes, bites his lower lip. One more try. 

“…Pekka?” 

Nothing.

 

* * *

In his dream, Juuse lays curled up in Pekka’s embrace, the man nosing along his throat and making carnal, feral noises that center an ache between Juuse’s thighs. It’s the most contact he’s had with him in the dreamscape. When he tries to ask him where he’s gone, Pekka only hushes him, reverently tracing over his face and neck. His hands don’t wander lower, though Juuse’s legs lay tangled with his and every small movement makes the ache worse. Juuse can’t help the little frustrated noises he makes. Every time he does, Pekka pauses. Uncertain. Juuse cannot tell if he’s frustrated because of the way Pekka is touching him or because of the way Pekka isn’t touching him, but he lacks the language he needs to explain this. So he tries to stay quiet, because if he’s quiet then Pekka will continue. But his hands never go lower and the ache gets worse, and Juuse doesn’t know what to say to make it go away or cease. When he lets out another whimper, he breathes in through his mouth, and tastes blood.

 

* * *

When Juuse awakens, the room feels imperceptibly brighter and smaller at the same time. He’s not surrounded by wooden walls, but he doesn’t have time to address the complex emotions that the realization brings. Rather, he waits, trying to figure out why he can see — however slightly — more than before. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. He sits up, groaning with the effort. 

Pekka stands at the foot of his bed. 

Juuse squeaks at the sudden appearance. The dream from the night prior sinks over him like a sudden snowfall; icy and heavy and cold. There is no comfort in this. 

Pekka says nothing, but he looks as if he wishes to. His hands are in his pockets again, and he’s not dressed as formally as Juuse has come to know him. But Juuse doesn’t know what he could possibly say, even though he is filled questions. Perhaps he can begin with one of those. He opens his mouth to speak, and his tongue takes the desire and twists it, revealing something new. 

“Why did you leave me?” His voice has deepened with rest, however temporary, though he knows it will lighten with use. He watches as Pekka flinches, his shoulders briefly tightening before relaxing. Juuse knows not why. What value could his opinion have, other than that of a guest, and an unwitting one at that.

“I had matters to attend to elsewhere,” Pekka answers, taking a step towards the corner of the bed. “I’m sorry for leaving you. I had been out for another reason when we had met, and. It was important to finish what I needed done.” He gives him a small smile then, close lipped. 

Juuse remembers his dream, the faint scent of blood. “What business?” 

Pekka tilts his head, listening to something else beyond the walls of the room. “You look beautiful there,” he murmurs. “Right where you belong.” 

The deep wildness from the night prior purrs at the recognition. Juuse finds himself leaning towards Pekka, a slight incline, until he’s met by Pekka’s palm against his cheek. How fast has he moved to cross the space in that time? It doesn’t matter, Juuse decides, for he is being touched after a lifetime of isolation. 

Then his own manners awaken and he abruptly continues, “Oh, I’m sorry! I don’t mean to impose, I…I hope it was alright that I slept here? I was so tired, and I tried to ask if it was alright, but. Well, I suppose it was foolish. You weren’t here, after all.” Even as he says this, his brows furrow, because he knows that is not the case. Pekka was there, in his dream, bringing pleasure and frustration in equal measure. The thought makes his pulse pick up, the hand on his cheek reminding him of things found and things lost.

“I won’t leave you again. Time is strange, for me, but you will help teach me, yes?” The hand on his cheek moves to stroke his hair, and Juuse finds himself nodding yes without thinking much about it. “Good! Then it’s settled.” 

He speaks with a youth about him, that Juuse would not have expected. His voice no longer holds the ancient quality that it did before, cradled in the forest, though there is an undeniable power about the house. Juuse only assumes that it is a house; it seems as if he were brought straight to this room, with no preview of what else was around him. Then again, he chastises himself, he had been nearly half asleep with the first passing through. Of course he wouldn’t remember much. 

…Wasn’t there something he wanted to do?

“What is it, Juuse?” Pekka’s hand drops from his face, his other replacing it on the mirror side. His thumb sweeps in soft slow arcs, a cat’s tail over wooden floors, passing constantly over his marking. He speaks his name like a prayer. Juuse wants to cry. 

“I can’t remember,” he whispers. “I wanted to…why am I here?” Fear, whom he had not felt in too long, rises from the damp leaf trodden recesses of his mind. He shouldn’t be here. This place is unnatural. A quick look out of the corner of his eye reveals the fire burning an impossibly dark blue, and though the curtains hint at light (a silver light, moonlight, not the buttery sun) on the other side though they do not sway with any wind. He does not know where he is. 

He feels the thumb stroking his face pause at his mark. Like before, the same pleasure pain comes of it — more pleasure than pain this time — and the fear and frustration melts away. Of course he is here; it is where he’s meant to be. Pekka will take good care of him, will ensure nothing ill intended befalls him. 

**_this is what you’ve been waiting for._** It’s not a voice, but a feeling, and Juuse finds himself agreeing. Truth may be subjective but he is Pekka’s objectively. His hearing fluctuates, and he almost thinks he hears the tinkling of bells before Pekka’s gentle hush covers them. 

“That’s it. I know it’s confusing. They kept you from me for too long. But you’ll find your way. It’s where you were meant to be,” Pekka murmurs, his thumb moving from his mark to continue stroking down his face. 

This is where he belongs. He ducks his head, feeling somewhat shamed for taking so long. He was waiting, but Pekka was waiting too

‘ _an eternity praying, working, sowing, bleeding’_

and he was a fool to make him wait.

I will make it up to Pekka, he thinks to himself. The time is here. 

“Yes, little one. But there is no rush. I am…excited to have you.” His voice is near breathless, and how he manages to answer his thoughts Juuse does not know. Out of all the mysteries, he thinks that is the one to press on the least. As he speaks, the scent of stale blood curls in close. 

“Have you been injured?” Somehow, this is his most pressing query. 

Pekka shakes his head, giving Juuse another close lipped smile. “Nothing of the sort, little one.”

Juuse blushes with relief. He’s close enough now to see the imperceptible way Pekka’s eyes darken, the pupils expanding, a thick circle of black eclipsing the pale cornflower blue. They look human, Juuse decides. They are of a familiar shape, as his own, but he feels as if he is looking into something he is not yet meant to understand. He watches his lips part, teeth just a little too long in places peeking past smooth lips. Juuse remembers the way Pekka pressed those lips to his flesh only a few hours prior, in another world, warm and aching and together. He doesn’t have it in him to ask for that yet, no matter how right it feels.

Pekka blinks and the moment is lost. He stands off the bed. Juuse somehow feels as if he’s both out of the room and in it at the same time. He reaches out and takes Pekka’s hand in his own, a desperate grab for safety. 

“D-don’t leave, I’m sor-”

Pekka makes another noise that Juuse can only describe as a sort of soft, affectionate growl. Like a purr, but darker. 

It soothes him. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Pekka murmurs. “Come; let me show you around.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments + kudos make the writing faster 💛💙


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